Inheritance
by Socrates7727
Summary: Sometimes, doing the best thing for the one you love means doing nothing at all. And sometimes, it means other things... written for the IWSC! Prompts inside.


AN I don't own HP or any of the characters! Written for round one, season two of the IWSC!

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**Story Title: **Inheritance

**School and Theme: **Mahoutokoro - Malfoy Manor

**Special Rule: **Petunia Durlsey (main character I have never written before)

**Main Prompt: **[Dialogue] "Sometimes doing the best thing for the one you love means doing nothing at all."

**Additional Prompts: **[Emotion] Jealousy

**Year: **Two

**Wordcount: **2246

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_Sometimes, doing the best thing for the one you love means doing nothing at all._ That's what Mrs. Evans says as she waves goodbye to Lily, watching the Hogwarts Express disappear down the tracks. She clutches the hand of her elder daughter, only twelve years old, and a million reasons why she shouldn't let Lily go at such a young age into such a strange world—but she does. It's what's best for her, after all.

_Sometimes, doing the best thing for the one you love means doing nothing at all._ That's what Petunia hears as she watches her younger sister depart on the adventure of a lifetime. Her mother drags her by the hand back towards her own normal, boring life. Bitterness stabs sharply against the insides of her stomach and she wonders, yet again, why she wasn't the one born special. She puts up a wall between her and Lily, severing their relationship, and doesn't ever look back.

_Sometimes, doing the best thing for the one you love means doing nothing at all._ That's what Petunia tells the other girls in sixth form. She uses the phrase to talk them out of meaningless, unhealthy relationships but she can see that some of them take it a bit too literally. They break away from all human attachment, and devote themselves to material, measurable things. She vows to never be that sort of person.

_Sometimes, doing the best thing for the one you love means doing nothing at all._ That's what Petunia says to herself as she rocks a sleeping Dudley in the recliner, listening to the cries of another baby upstairs. Mustn't spoil him with attention… Vernon doesn't even look up, but she notices when he turns up the volume on the television to drown it out. The volume wakes Dudley again.

_Sometimes, doing the best thing for the one you love means doing nothing at all._ She hears her mother's voice in her head and she sees Lily waving them goodbye from the train's window. Those words equal that distant, detached sort of interest. It isn't concern, and it isn't affection, but she'd been told that she loved her sister so that feeling must be love. That was how she loved Vernon, at least, and that was how she loved Harry. Distantly, like she could equate writing the occasional letter to forgetting Harry's formula in the microwave for a few hours and wondering why he wouldn't stop screaming.

She loves Dudley, but of course it's different because he's her son. Her _real_ son. With him, she pours all the love and affection she's seen in films into that tiny little body—she cherishes him. She imagines that it's how Lily must have felt growing up, and a surge of envy courses through her system. Must have been nice…

Petunia isn't a bad person—at least she doesn't think she is—but she rationalizes and she compartmentalizes and she… neglects. It doesn't seem very bad, at first. The boy is scrawny and poorly behaved because he's Lily's son and God knows her husband wasn't any better as a child. But, there's something to the way he looks at her and Vernon every now and then. A bitterness, maybe, or disappointment that feels too intense for his young age.

Both boys graduate, though she only assumes on Harry's part as there is no celebration or ceremony—at least not that they're invited to. Vernon, for one, is very happy to be legally rid of Harry and they celebrate by repurposing his bedroom into a workout room. They spend thousands of dollars on fancy gym equipment and they're sure to slow the movers down in any way they can so that their neighbors have a better chance of seeing the spectacle. No one asks, but she can see eyes in the windows of Privet Drive.

Dudley still lives at home. He has a job and he's often away from the house but, if anything, that only encourages her and Vernon. There's always been a compulsion lying dormant in their household. It presents itself in little symptoms like their perfectly symmetrical flower beds or the way they position the television so the neighbors can see how many channels of cable they pay for. The more Dudley stays away, the more their home feels like a stage.

She sees it in Dudley when he moves out and she wonders if it's genetic. He's messy and he can't take care of himself any more than the next young adult male but he has a certain inclination for things that appear perfect. Displays of wealth, maybe, and gaudy efforts at building a reputation on his street.

He finds a suitable wife who is pretty enough on the outside that she could fit into their picture-perfect little family. She's good for them. Her name is Jane—plain and simple, just like her—but Petunia welcomes the normality and the commonness. Jane fits in and, by extension, Petunia feels a slightly stronger sense of belonging when she thinks about her family. All of them, except Lily, of course.

Jane turns out to be a small, quiet thing that seems scared of both her and Vernon despite only meeting them twice. The wedding is perfect and the photo albums show nothing less. They're displayed on the coffee table where they can't possibly be missed, and Petunia makes sure to direct every guest she can to peruse them. Then, a baby is announced. Everyone is thrilled, and Petunia is delighted to be a grandmother. The baby is born perfect as well, or so she's told.

It's a girl. Dudley is happy, but not as happy as he would have been had it been a boy. Petunia is too happy to care, though, and all she can see are the thousands of baby pictures and perfect family Christmas cards in her future. Regardless of gender, adding one more perfect, matching little life to her family feels like a success.

She's allowed to meet the infant a week later—once they're home from the hospital—and she peeks into the bassinet, trying to recognize features that Dudley had had as a baby. Cute button nose, rosy cheeks, tiny little fingers, and… green eyes hit her like bullets.

They're Lily's eyes.

They've named her Daisy. The baby wails, and both parents are immediately there to coddle her. Those glistening rings of emerald watch her over Dudley's shoulder as he soothes the infant, but Petunia once again feels jilted. Now her son—her world—had chosen Lily too. Or, at least a part of her.

It gets better with time, as most things do, and everyone seems to be settling into a new routine, including her and Vernon. They host gatherings with fancy wine and expensive cheeses that no one really likes the taste of, finally getting the reputation they'd always wanted when they'd moved to Privet Drive. The perfectly staged baby photos alone get twice the reaction and support from the community that Harry ever had.

This time around, their curiosity is welcomed. They want to know her name, her birthweight, and every new accomplishment she makes regardless of how small. Daisy is perfect, of course, and welcomes the attention. No one asks about the smaller boy, or about magic. No one mentions the word 'freak'.

A second pregnancy is announced. Petunia is overjoyed, of course, but she can see the toll fatherhood is taking on her son and she sees more of Vernon in him every day.

It's a boy. He's born two weeks premature and Daisy is brought to stay with her and Vernon while her parents stay with the baby in the hospital. When he's brought home, he's so tiny and so precious that attention naturally surrounds him. He's… perfect.

Daisy is jealous, of course, and she acts out just as Petunia had when Lily had been born. Petunia understands that feeling better than most, but she's read enough parenting books and magazines to trust that Dudley and Jane are handling it appropriately. The toddler still throws fits, but seems to understand that attention now belongs to her baby brother.

Petunia doesn't see anything wrong with that, honestly. The baby is still premature and still so fragile that he needs the attention often times. She welcomes the fanfare and attention that he brings in from the community, too. There's nothing problematic about the way Daisy now takes a backseat, she reasons, because it isn't like the little girl is missing meals or being neglected—she just isn't an only child anymore.

It isn't until they're gathered in the living room, watching Jane rock the baby boy, that Petunia begins to notice it. Daisy toddles in, signing for milk and for food the way Jane had so dutifully taught her. None of the adults even look at her.

Jane looks torn, glancing between the baby in her arms and the little girl clearly asking to be fed, but can't do much in her current position. Dudley just stands there, cooing at his son. Fed up with being ignored, Daisy begins to cry. Jane starts to address the little girl, but Dudley stops her with a hand on her arm.

"She's fine. It's good to build patience, right?" Jane says nothing, and Petunia only watches. Still ignored, Daisy dissolves into a full-on temper-tantrum in the middle of the floor, pounding the carpet and squirming enough to give herself rug burns. Dudley just watches. Petunia feels guilty just watching, though, so she moves to scoop up the little body and take care of the problem because Dudley and Jane are both clearly busy—but Dudley stops her.

"No, let her cry. She needs to learn that throwing a fit won't get her what she wants." It sounds rational, but Petunia can't shake the sick feeling in her gut.

"But she's hungry and she hasn't had a nap yet today. She hasn't eaten since—"

"Mom, follow your own advice for once. _Sometimes, doing the best thing for the one you love means doing nothing at all_. Remember?" Her own words rattle inside her skull like shotgun shells. She chokes, caught in the image of those tear-filled, piercing green eyes staring up at her from the floor. Lily had always looked like that when they were little. Harry had looked like that too, once he'd been old enough to understand that Dudley was getting preferential treatment. Petunia suddenly wants to throw her own temper-tantrum.

She can see it happening all over again. That dark, boiling anger she'd felt towards Lily through their entire childhood was looking back at her now from the floor. The rage that comes from being denied something as basic as food or affection, and the utter jealousy that comes from watching someone else be clearly favorited. It always started as just favoritism, at least…

Neglect. The word for what she'd done—what she'd rationalized, and reasoned through so many times—was neglect.

She hears a baby crying, but it isn't either of the children in the room. It's distant and painful in a way she recognizes all too well. She'd sounded like that whenever Lily had gotten an award or written home while she sat, alone and ignored, upstairs. Harry had sounded like that when she'd rocked Dudley instead of him, or let him sit in his diaper too long because Dudley was asleep in her lap. And now Daisy sounds the same, too.

It'd been dismissable in the beginning and she'd rationalized because Harry had been a freak just like Lily but she can see now that she'd drawn the wrong comparison. Harry wasn't a representation of Lily—he wasn't the favorite, or the more loved—he was Petunia. And now, Daisy is in their little club for second-choice siblings too, because Dudley is beginning to do the exact same thing.

"No," Dudley and Jane both look at her in surprise. "I mean, yes, I did say that. But I was wrong. I was so wrong… There's a difference between coddling a child and tending to their needs. She needs food, and he doesn't need to be constantly held. Go feed your daughter and don't ever let me catch you playing favorites with them because so help me, Dudley, I will—"

"Whoa, mom, what are you talking about? Daisy ate lunch with us like half an hour ago. You were there."

Oh.

"Sometimes, doing the best thing for the one you love means doing nothing at all." Dudley quotes it back to her like it's gospel. She's said it so many times over the years, especially whenever adult Dudley asked about Harry, that she's numb to the sentiment. Or, at least she had been.

"Sometimes, maybe," she agrees, pulling Daisy into her lap and smoothing her hair. "But sometimes it means doing everything you possibly can to show them that they are loved. People find that easy to forget, in my experience." Dudley nods, looking at her like she needs to see a doctor. She supposes that that's only fair as this is highly out of character for her usual desire for decorum and appearance, but guilt changes a person. It's never hit her quite as strongly as it does right now. She's made so many mistakes, and Harry… No wonder he'd hated Dudley so much. It was the same way she'd hated Lily, after all.

"Sometimes it means recognizing old patterns," she whispers, more to herself than anyone there. "And sometimes it means fighting to make sure they can't happen again."

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Thanks so much for reading!


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